On a sandy, difficult uphill
track,
Exposed on all sides to the sun,
Six strong horses were pulling a coach.
Everyone had got out, women, a monk, old people.
The team of horses was sweating, panting, exhausted.
A fly comes along and approaches the horses,
Supposedly urging them on with its buzzing;
It bites one and then another, all the time thinking
That it is driving the rig,
It sits on the pole, and on the coachman's nose.
As soon as the coach starts to move,
And the fly sees the people walking,
It attributes all the glory to itself,
And bustles back and forth, as though it were
A battle sergeant dashing here, there and everywhere
To advance his troops and speed their victory.
The fly, in this communal task,
Complains that it is the only one doing anything,
That no-one is helping the horses out of their difficulty.
The monk was reciting his breviary
And certainly taking his time! A woman was singing:
Songs were certainly just what was needed!
Madam Fly goes round singing in their ears
And doing a hundred silly things of this kind.
After much hard work the coach reaches the top of the hill.
"Let's take a breather," says the fly at once:
"I've done so much to bring our people to level ground.
For that, Horses, you'll pay me for my trouble."

Thus do certain people, making
themselves appear very busy,
Enter all affairs.
Everywhere they make themselves seem essential,
And, everywhere a nuisance, should be chased away.